


The Jack and the Eight of Diamonds

by TrulyMightyPotato



Series: Royal Flush [8]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (Meaning interpersonal relationships, Attempted Murder, Bodily Harm, Hints as to current relationships, How They Met, Includes a fair amount of death, Successful murder, Threats, not romantic ones)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 07:26:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12249732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyMightyPotato/pseuds/TrulyMightyPotato
Summary: Felix, Cry, and Ken had to meet at some point before AAO began. This is it.





	The Jack and the Eight of Diamonds

_December 24, 1918_

Felix propped himself up on the roof of his parents’ house with one hand while the other pulled his knees closer to his chest. The open window to his room sat quietly behind him, curtains fluttering faintly in the slight breeze.

The sun was almost all the way set by now, and stars were beginning to appear in the uppermost part of the sky. Felix smiled at them, his breath turning white from the cold.

For a split second, he thought he saw a blank face in his peripheral, and he froze. It only took another moment for him to turn and look, but there was nothing there.

Felix rubbed his forehead. All of this stress must be getting to him.

But it was a lot colder now than when he’d come out, and he didn’t have time to waste on pondering mysterious white blobs, so he crawled back through his room window and closed it firmly. Something deep inside him raised a hand in worry, and Felix clicked the lock on the window before drawing the heavy curtains over it. That something lowered the hand.

Felix glanced at the clock on the wall, only to blink. It wasn’t all that late—the sun set early in winter, after all—but it was later than he’d expected. He needed to check on his mother, make sure she’d remembered to take her medication before the evening meal. She usually did, but it never hurt to check.

Felix first went to his parents’ room, only to find it completely empty. Both of them must have gone down to the meal, then. Morrison should have come and gotten him—not that it was his job. Morrison was the cook, not the fetch-the-son-dangling-himself-out-the-window guy. Though Felix had no doubt Morrison could manhandle him in—he’d just gotten back from the war a few weeks before, just in time to fill the position of cook when the one Felix had grown up with had decided to finally retire.

Felix paused at his mother’s bedside table and tapped the glass bottle sitting there before moving it aside to look at the paper underneath.

There wasn’t any mark by the “December 24, Evening” reminder.

Felix sighed and grabbed the bottle, bouncing it slightly in his hand as he made his way down the stairs. Honestly, it was so easy to forget the bottle when his mother had to be carried up and down the stairs each time she wanted to go around the house—and yet, she refused to move to one of the downstairs rooms.

No matter. Felix could both carry her downstairs if needed and bring her her forgotten medication. It wasn’t hard.

Morrison was in the hall outside the dining room, and Felix gave him a cordial nod. “What’s on the menu tonight?”

“Oh, nothing special. Just some traditional Christmas Eve things,” Morrison shrugged, though he seemed to be trying to hide delight that Felix had asked. “Oh, and Pansino dropped off some tarts earlier for a gift for your parents. They were planning to give them a taste the last time I saw them.”

Felix grinned. Tarts from Pansino—oh, that was definitely a magnificent treat. Mr. Pansino might have been the Kjellbergs’ biggest competitor, but that daughter of his sure knew how to bake.

“Are they in the dining room?”

Morrison nodded. “They should be. Didn’t actually see them sit down, since I’m off to the basement to find some ingredients I stored there, but there’s not a whole lot of places I imagine they’d have gone if not there.”

“Thank you.” Felix dipped his head.

“No problem.” Morrison smiled himself. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to find those potatoes.”

Felix tipped an imaginary hat, and Morrison returned the gesture, before they both turned and went on their way.

“Mother,” Felix said as he pushed open the door to the dining room, “your paper says you haven’t taken your-“

His mother was slumped onto the table, and his father on the floor next to her chair.

Felix’s eyes widened, the bottle of his mother’s medication dropping from his hand and breaking on the floor, and he darted over to them.

“Mother?” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Father?”

Neither of them responded.

Felix pulled his mother up, recoiling in growing horror when she flopped in his grasp. She wasn’t breathing.

His gaze flicked to his father on the floor, only for Felix to realize he wasn’t breathing either.

Felix staggered, thudding backwards into the table. “Mother-“ His voice was faint, like it couldn’t keep up with the panic coursing through Felix. “Father-“ He swallowed. What was he supposed to do? He didn’t have any sort of training on this, he’d never had to deal with anything like this before. How did he make them start breathing again?

Morrison. Morrison had been a medic in the war.

Felix was pushing his way out of the dining room before he’d even completed the thought, his feet carrying him full speed the way Morrison had gone, so unable to catch his breath fully he was taking horrible gasping breaths.

“Woah!” Morrison’s hands gripped Felix’s shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

“My parents-“ Felix swallowed, trying to get past the lump in his throat. “They’re not breathing, I don’t know what to do.”

Morrison’s eyes widened and he took off down the hallway back to the dining room, dropping the potatoes he’d been carrying.

Felix took off after him, nearly crashing into several walls as his vision became more and more obscured by tears. They couldn’t be dead, it just had to be something weird going on, right?

\-----

Felix was so tired of answering the same questions over and over again. He knew the police were just trying to do their jobs and investigate the shadiness of this whole situation, but couldn’t they share notes? It was almost midnight. He wanted to sleep.

He wanted to sleep and try to forget that his parents had been declared dead and that the police suspected foul play.

He wanted to forget that he now owned his father’s alcohol company, by default of inheritance, and he was responsible for making sure it made it through the amendment on the verge of getting ratified.

Felix silently cursed as another bull approached him and ducked his head into his hands to try and blink away the tears before they spilled from his eyes.

He wasn’t supposed to be burying his parents while he was so young.

A hand went on his shoulder, and Felix lowered his hands to see Morrison giving him a concerned look.

“I sent them off. They finished looking at everything, and I didn’t want them asking you the same questions for the fifth time.”

Felix’s shoulders slumped. “Thank you, Morrison.”

“Call me Ken.” Ken offered Felix a hand. “Let’s get you to bed. You look exhausted.”

“Can you blame me?” Felix took the outstretched hand.

“Not at all.”

\-----

The last of the lights had gone out in the Kjellberg house, and the bulls were gone. Fortunately, none of them had bothered looking up at all in their investigation.

Cry stood from his crouch and slowly stretched. His muscles were all cold from waiting on the roof for so long, and that simply wouldn’t do.

He cursed silently at the ache of moving—he’d definitely been out in the cold too long—then flexed all of his joints. They were all working properly.

He quietly walked down the roof and over to one of the windows set in it. He knew which room belonged to the Kjellberg son, but he’d seen him lock the window earlier. He must have seen Cry out of the corner of his eye. Either that or he just didn’t like the idea of cold leaking in through a gap.

Or both. Both was an option.

In either case, it wouldn’t stop Cry from doing his job—he had a lot of money resting on this. Almost enough that he’d be set for the next year.

Besides, how hard could it be to kill a rich kid? This rich kid especially? He didn’t have any bodyguards, and absolutely no lessons on defending himself.

Cry scaled around the outside of the house, quietly testing windows until he found one that was unlocked. It wasn’t too far from the Kjellberg kid’s room, so that was great.

Cry pulled himself into the room—it was some sort of office of some kind—and dropped into a crouch. He didn’t know who else would be here—there were staff, of course, but he hadn’t been able to find out if they were live in or not. Hopefully not, since that would make his job that much easier.

This was his first paid assassination job, after all. It would be rather embarrassing if he couldn’t manage _this_ , of all things.

He crept quietly down the hall, using his ears to listen for signs of anyone walking around instead of his eyes. The hall was dark, after all, and turning on the light would give him away.

Finally, Cry peeked in the room that should be the Kjellberg kid’s room. The bed had a figure in it, sprawled like they couldn’t sleep comfortably.

Cry snuck into the room. He needed to make sure this was the right person. Otherwise he’d have to explain why there were multiple bodies when there was only supposed to be one. Honestly, killing too many people was just as sloppy as killing the wrong one.

Blonde hair and a young face became clear as Cry got close. The kid—young man, really, probably about Cry’s own age of early 20s—was definitely Felix Kjellberg.

Cry pulled out his knife.

Kjellberg shifted and groaned, and Cry silently cursed, glancing around the room. There. There was a closet.

He ducked inside just in time for Kjellberg to jerk awake, shooting into a sitting position.

Cry silently cursed again.

For a minute, all that could be heard was panting. Then the rustle of fabric against fabric, and bare feet on the floor.

Cry cursed again.

Feet walked the room for a while. The rhythm of it seemed to be pacing, especially since the footsteps kept crossing next to the closet Cry was hiding in.

Well, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. So much for an easy first paid job.

“…too cold.” The murmur barely reached Cry, and was his only warning before Kjellberg threw open the doors to the closet.

Well, they were doing this now, then.

Cry jumped forward, tackling Kjellberg. Kjellberg cried out as they fell and he took the brunt of it, of course, and his hands scrambled against Cry, trying to push him off.

“Ken! Ken, _help!”_ Kjellberg shrieked, twisting under Cry.

Cry leaned all his weight on Kjellberg. He didn’t know who this ‘Ken’ was, but he was bound to make Cry’s life more difficult.

He had to end this now, before trouble came.

Cry jerked his knife down, trying to hit Kjellberg in the stomach. It would be brutal and not nearly as fast as he’d like, but it was the easiest thing to reach right now.

At least, it would have been had Kjellberg not twisted again.

Instead of the knife sinking into him like Cry wanted, the knife skidded down Kjellberg’s side. It was a long cut, and instantly started bleeding, but it wouldn’t kill him.

Kjellberg screamed.

The door was thrown open, and a hand roughly grabbed Cry from the back and threw him across the room.

Cry slammed into the wall and crumpled to the floor, where he cursed (out loud this time) at the pain it caused to push himself to his feet.

A bear of a man was crouched next to Kjellberg, worry worn clear across his face. Then he looked up, and that worry turned into fury.

Cry had dropped his knife when he was thrown across the room, and it now sat out of reach, but that was alright. He had a second knife.

He drew it and lowered himself into a crouch. He had to get out of here. Clearly things weren’t going well, and he’d take his punishment for failing over dying any day of the week

The other man—must be this Ken fellow—crouched over Kjellberg, who was now taking shuddering breaths with his hands clutching his side.

Instead of darting for Kjellberg, Cry darted for the door.

A hand grabbed at his mask, yanking him backwards and sending his second knife flying. Cry hit the floor with a thud for the second time in as many minutes, except this time Ken was on him.

“You’re not killing him.” Ken growled, before a punch slammed into Cry’s ribs.

Cry groaned and twisted, throwing his hips into the air like he was doing some kind of weird acrobatics move. Ken went tumbling, and Cry staggered to his feet.

Ken grabbed Cry’s ankle, and he went down again.

If he wanted a brawl so badly, Cry would give him a brawl.

As punches were thrown (along with the occasional kick or foot stomp), it quickly became apparent the two were fairly evenly matched. Cry was faster, dodging more punches than not, but his own hits didn’t do nearly as much damage as he’d like. Ken was sturdier and stronger, and when he did land a punch, it sent this rude mask-wearing assassin staggering.

And then he managed to land a hit right in Cry’s diaphragm.

Cry crumpled with a wheeze, but once on the ground started to try and crawl away. His entire body hurt—he’d likely broken a bunch of bones, and he’d be sporting bruises for weeks—but he still tried.

The big man grabbed him, though. A belt slid around Cry’s wrists and he was propped in the corner.

It hurt too much to move, but the big guy seemed to be just as roughed up as Cry was. He was just clearly more concerned with Kjellberg than himself.

The big man left the room for a minute, during which Cry managed to get the belt around his wrists half undone, but returned carrying medical supplies.

“Look, you,” Ken gave Cry a nasty look, “just stay there, okay? You won’t make it out of here like that.” He pulled a gun from the top of the medical kit. “I can promise that.”

Cry groaned and let his head drop into the corner.

This was swell.

\-----

Dawn was peeking through a slit in the curtains by the time Ken had cleaned and stitched up Felix’s side, wrapping it with bandages for good measure, and Felix gently placed in his bed.

Ken turned to the would-be assassin in the corner. He’d gone quiet a long time ago. Had he not still been obviously breathing, Ken would have worried he’d hit him too hard and now he was dead. The assassin might be unconscious, though.

Ken flexed his wrists and grimaced, but walked back over to his medical kit and pulled things out to treat the worst of his own injuries.

The assassin eventually looked over—not unconscious, then—but didn’t make any moves. Likely, he was aware that Ken had tucked the gun into the small of his back, where could pull it out and shoot at a moment’s notice.

Was this man Kjellberg’s bodyguard? Cry tilted his head slightly, even though exhaustion and pain dragged at his body. If so, he was the best-kept secret of the entire Kjellberg family.

Well, there was only one member of that family left. It should have been none, because Cry was supposed to do his job, but it looked like Kjellberg was going to live.

He couldn’t say the same about himself.

Kjellberg gestured Ken to the side of his bed and murmured something, pushing himself into a sitting position with a clear expression of pain.

Ken obeyed, though he kept his gaze fixed on Cry. Then he nodded.

Then he came over to Cry and hauled him to his feet.

Cry’s knees buckled almost instantly, and the world swam slightly at the sudden movement.

That wasn’t a good sign.

“Who sent you?” Kjellberg asked.

Cry sighed. “You really think I’m going to answer that?”

Kjellberg nodded.

Cry scoffed. “Nope.”

Kjellberg scowled. “Okay. Then we have three ways we can do this. First is I turn you over to the bulls. I’m sure they’ll be glad to take care of you—attempted murder is a very serious crime, after all.”

“I’m not very fond of that.”

Kjellberg raised an eyebrow, as if saying ‘no, duh.’ “The second option is Morrison and I take care of you ourselves and you find yourself at the bottom of the Charles.”

“I think I’m more buoyant than that. What’s the third option?”

“The third option… you work for me.”

Cry laughed.

“As if.”

Kjellberg shrugged. “He seemed fond of the second option, I think.”

Ken started dragging Cry from the room, sending his vision pitching just a little bit more.

“Wait.”

Was he really going to do this? The Faceless would kill him if they found out. Unless he got express permission for it? Was that possible?

Kjellberg smirked.

“I’ve got to talk with my contractor.” Cry blinked, trying to focus the world. “If they don’t kill me for suggesting it, then you’ve got a deal.”

“And if they do kill you?”

“Then I’m really not your problem anymore, now am I?”

Kjellberg nodded. “There’s a phone in the hall. Use it to call them.”

Cry nodded and began to brace himself for death. This was a big mess up. The Faceless might just decide to kill him to save themselves the trouble of dealing with him later—probably not, it almost never happened, but it was possible. And if they said no, well… Cry was going to be getting very intimate with an early grave.

\-----

Five minutes later, Ken was dragging the assassin back into the room.

The assassin looked up, the derpy expression on his mask oddly out of place for the conversation at hand.

“You’ve got a deal.”


End file.
